Her mind was quieter now than last night, when, in the first hours of possessing the exciting idea of a scheme of action so congenial to her, all had been pleasurable turmoil. Now she could think more connectedly, could shape her thoughts to some end. She wisely resolved to leave style alone—at all events at first—until she had ascertained for a fact that the style which came naturally to her was poor. She would be careful concerning grammar, but she had always detested the sight of the outside cover of books upon the subject, and so far as she could remember, had never opened one. She set up an imaginary stage in her mind, bringing her characters one by one to bow before her, and to ask modestly whether they would please her; what relations they were to bear one to another; what influence life upon life. Then the grouping must be pleasingly harmonious or disturbingly discordant: there must be nothing tame nor indifferent about her work. "We need not be so absolutely dumb," Digby Travers murmured, and Hazel awoke with a start. "I’d rather lose all the fish, if catching it can only be accomplished by not talking to you, or not hearing you talk." "Hush," Hazel rejoined. "The others don’t feel like that, and besides," she added truthfully, "I want to think." "Oh, well," the young man returned, in a somewhat injured tone, "that is another thing, of course"; and he continued his occupation in gloomy silence, the while Hazel resumed her thread of cogitation. Presently she began to realise that she must be simpler and more methodical in her ideas—less profound. After all, she was not undertaking the writing of a book. Let her conjure up some pretty little story, and write it carefully and faithfully—perhaps the pathos and the humour would take care of themselves. That night, in the seclusion of her own room, she set to work, in a fever of energy and fervent purpose. She had gone upstairs at ten, but it was nigh upon one o’clock when the girl at length extinguished her light and laid her down to rest. Even then sleep did not come to her quickly, for her brain was thoroughly roused and excited. Three evenings devoted to this work sufficed to complete her story, and on the fourth, after carefully revising her work, she proceeded to write it out neatly, and the result of her labour was to her own entire satisfaction. Anticipating the certainty of having all in readiness before she slept, she had, during the day, addressed a letter to Teddie asking him to meet her in town next morning, which epistle she directed to his lodging; for she felt the urgency of completing all such arrangements from her friends’ house, wishing as she did to keep all secret until such time as she could ask for sympathy in her disappointment, or for congratulations in her success.